I, Gihren
by Uncle Jo
Summary: When I was still a child at heart my younger sister shot me in the back of the head with a pistol. I was never quite the same afterwards. I lost all desire to visit the great state of Washington, and completely forget where I'd parked. .


When I was still young and impressionable my sister shot me in the back of the head with a low-caliber weapon. I was devastated. Life goes on I suppose.  
  
Bitter, confused, and not quite alive I drifted in and out of a state of nothingness, a pile of humanity on the bitter cold floor, praying incessantly for a write-in. Face down and immobile, the first few months passed by slowly, but gave me a renewed appreciation for the soft miracle that is carpeting. In fact, the moment I regained consciousness I found myself imagining how much difference a few feet of Persian Red would have made in the hallway. Might have cheered up the whole place.  
  
After the first few months I lost all feeling in my neck; free now to move my head unhindered by ten ultimate levels of pain, I uncovered my eyes from what seemed centuries of darkness only to discover all of the lights had been pawned. It was rather lonely now that the fortress had been closed to the public, but occasionally the janitor would come by and throw some peanuts at me. Peanuts were never really my prime dish on account of my allergies, but I couldn't bring myself to yell at him since I'd lost most motor control of my face and all.  
  
I kept my sanity by befriending a shell casing. I surmised it must have once been a part of the bullet that had pierced my skull, because I knew that firing a weapon indoors without the intention of hitting something soft and fleshy was just plain silly. I named it Paul; earlier experiences in my life had left me distrustful of women and I could not figure an asexual name for ammunition. As a companion Paul left me wanting more. I ended up dominating most conversations and his I.Q. I believe was a sparse one, but who was I to criticize? My I.Q. had been a part of the hallway's interior since my little accident. I couldn't complain though; I'm not kidding, the loss of half my cranium prevented me from saying a word. Still, I did notice a warm fuzzy feeling inside when the few who would pass by this section would comment on the wallpaper as being the "one thing in this whole God-forsaken place that makes me thankful I'm a janitor." In afterthought though I think they may have just been trying to make me feel better, and maybe the warm fuzzy feeling were just my chest muscles dying.  
  
Some time later they moved me from the hallway to a broom closet. You know what's funny about fortresses? In all the splendor of witnessing thousands of gun emplacements, full loading docks, and multiple master control rooms you forget about the little things. I must have poured over the blueprints for this place a thousand times, yet in my insatiable thirst for even more launch bays and viewing screens I had not been able to find room for than one broom closet. What was I thinking? Bathrooms. Useless relics of the past I said. Meant for an inferior people I said. The world's future supermen would need no bathrooms! Yes, I know. I was quite insane back then. That said, I must now inform you that being stuck on a hanger in a broom closet is not nearly as bad as it sounds. For one, you're never in sore need for reading material. Contrary to all stereotypes, I found that the cleaning staff was filled with avid readers of many genres. Long will I remember the many days I wiled away the time with such self-help classics as "Coping with Your Dead-End Job" by Michael Powers, "Ethics for Dummies" by Anonymous, and "Exciting Work for Violent People" by Mike Tyson. By the end of the second month I had learned how to start a day-care center, manage a free-clinic and cook an omelet for four with only one egg. I would have attempted something of the sort if there had been more than household poisons lying about and I entertained any fantasy about moving my arms freely.  
  
I became quite the celebrity at my post, and was happy to hold it for some three weeks. I still hear rumors, now and then, about mothers disciplining their young ones leaving off with the warning "or the closet man of Ab Boqu will stare at you." At the time of course my only actual duties revolved around holding things, like liquid refreshments and places in rather long books or maybe even a broom if a staff member was wealthy enough to have brought one from home. I was used to it after a while, but became increasingly annoyed by the staff's constant blather, mostly along the lines of, "I could have sworn I've seen this guy's face before."  
  
As said previously, I held my post as custodial pincushion for almost a month before I was promoted to Hydroponics scarecrow. It was a big change for me, but I enjoyed the freedom of movement being suspended on wooden pole with interchangeable wheels gave me. Staring down cockroaches and aphids from invading apples genetically engineered to look like Asparagus for some reason (Yes, that was my fault too) is only a twenty hour job, so I got a good four hours just to enjoy the aisles of Corn and fresh Spaghetti crops constantly coming to bear fruit around me. I know that does not make a lot of sense but let me tell you there was some spooky shit going on down in that Hydroponics lab. Bet you think that one is my fault too, but I signed a lot of documents that came across my desk back in the day and I did not exactly get to the reading every one of them as that would have been a waste of my ping-pong time and yours.  
  
The cockroaches and I were bitter nemesis for almost six months, in which time I rediscovered an appetite for crushing things smaller than myself. I went to great lengths to reinvigorate my legs soon afterwards; I take pride today in the knowledge that I was able to regain the use of my legs with only nature and my own insatiable thirst for violence as my only physical therapists. I had serious thoughts of turning this program of insect genocide into a veritable and well-defined Jazzercise for toddlers and soccer moms but felt differently after I took an actual gander at the requirements for dubbing yourself a doctor of physical therapy. Education. Hah! Content as I was with my current lot, overzealous performance on my part had earned me another step forward in the secular ranks of life.  
  
Thus it was that I became the official mascot of the third floor Hydroponics lobby's basketball team. While most people considered it a step up from my last line of work (people were finally treating me with the respect I deserved again), I could not help feeling wasted sitting there at each game so some female persons in short lab coats could pelt me with t- shirts fired from air bazookas for the fans enjoyment. It seemed to give some of the younger kids something to look forward to everyday, and I always epitomized myself as a role model for young adults, but it was ultimately unfulfilling and brought back a lot of horrifying memories. I didn't seem to get much sleep back then as I recall. It was a living though, and I figured once I attained freedom from the tyrannical clutches of that pole (whom I had now dubbed Woody due to a lack of serious companionship and sex for that matter) I could only continue my successful struggle for liquidity. However, such are the dreams that are first dashed.  
  
No sooner had I regained the use of my legs than I discovered from a stout nerdish fellow down in laboratory B that I had been sacked.  
  
"What? No, wait. Hold on a second. You can't fire me!"  
  
The tall fellow was one of those steely types who fires off rehearsed conversations as if he never expected an argument to come his way, a virtual Playback system where the right side of his cranium should have been.  
  
"I'm sorry sir, but we're all hard pressed to meet this year's budget requirements. It's all about profitability and…"  
  
"What the hell do you mean profitability? It's a government fortress in the middle space for crying out loud."  
  
He continued regardless, "and I'm afraid that some things just could not make in this months crunches. Oh we had to lose a lot of things. Remove some dead weight, so to speak. Projects had to be reexamined, reports reinterpreted and when all was said and done…"  
  
"But you need me! I'm Morty the Corpse of the Hydroponics Departments' Screaming Chloroplasts Basketball team. I was voted mascot most likely to actually be a lifeless piece of animatronics by Times magazine!"  
  
"Who? Uh, anyway, we felt that the basketball team could do without a mascot that leaked body fluids from his cranial cavity."  
  
"I'm getting better. I think it's finally starting to scab up."  
  
"Now, now. Don't take it so tough pal. We'll be happy to give you a reference. There are plenty of Hydroponics sports teams that would be happy to have a relic of such depressing times as you. Well, I'm glad we had this little talk you and I, and I do wish you the best of luck and all. Oh, and did you know you're missing an eye ball."  
  
"This is discrimination…can I at least keep…"  
  
"Oh, that reminds me. We're going to have to take your pole…hey now, just give it up."  
  
"What, that pole keeps my lungs from collapsing. No, please, I need that to breathe. Egad, Woody! Oh bloody damn hell! The burning! My insides are on fir-wait a second, why does the damn pole get to keep it's job when…"  
  
Having freed it from my vice-like grasp (I never said he was a weak, stout, nerdish fellow), the less than gentle man proceeded to roll it down the court.  
  
"Can you do that?"  
  
"…Yes."  
  
"Without roller-blades…"  
  
"…"  
  
"Or synthetic replacements for feet."  
  
"…No."  
  
"Well then, there you are. Now, I'm not going to say this but once: You are fired."  
  
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"  
  
"…You're fired."  
  
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"  
  
"…Fired."  
  
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"  
  
"Are you going to go now?"  
  
"…Yes."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well…when do I start receiving my severance?"  
  
To this day I am not sure what tipped the man over the edge, but the next thing I knew he had several cheerleaders using air-rocket-propelled t- shirts and little plastic statuettes of myself that had made their way into the bargain bins they used as munitions crates pelting me. If there was any irony to be found in this I pray I might one day discover; otherwise it was simply another embarrassing situation to add to the growing list, like the time I lost the war. Needless to say, I felt it necessary at that time to make an orderly retreat to some more comfortable higher ground, away from those murderous vixens and their insidious souvenirs. So it was with a heavy heart and bruised ego that I made my way off the station that day.  
  
I had never been a great fan of this whole outer space vogue. Stars made feel inadequate and insignificant, and I never once felt that in space people could hear me when I was yelling at them. Personally, I think we might have all been better off if we had just decided to stay home. Of course that is just between you and me. You know, when you get on down to the center of yourself, sometimes you find that all those glorious words and wisdoms that sprouted from your mind were just a manifestation of your intense jealousies for the neighbor's house, at least that is what my doctor used to tell me. Once again, that is just between the two of us. Anyhow, I made the decision to make a one way trip to beautiful Side 6-I did not get the feeling my particular talents would be appreciated anymore on Side 3; Everybody knew me there-but I was sure those flailing one series wonders on lucky number six would gladly accept me as their malevolent ruler. I'd work my way up from shop clerk a second time if I had too. Unfortunately, I had discounted the extreme pressure airfares put on your pockets when you can't pull it from funds that are designated for public schools. In the end I found myself bound on coach for a halfway trip to gloriously monotone Side Birmingham. Yes Side Birmingham (Don't ask me, I left my fate in the hands of the friendly folks at United).  
  
So, all was going less than well when a real blowhard decides the seat destined for my comfortable repose was actually his, and then he gets all wise on me about it. It was simply infuriating.  
  
"Excuse me you degrading sack of misused flesh, you seem to have misdirected the aim of that titanic comforter of yours into territory directly specified for my own slim figure." I prided myself on my abilities as public speaker. I still gleefully recall the day my University chums elected me "most likely to con a state." At least, I'm sure I would remember that if I didn't have a hole in my head the size of California World. Maybe I just didn't have any school chums. Anyway, back to the conversation:  
  
"Oh, well, excuse me your highness. I had no idea it was your seat. Please, be my guest. No wait, please allow me to kiss your little ass before you take your place on this undeserving throne."  
  
"Why thank you for…hey, wait a minute. That sounds like an insult…was it?"  
  
"Just get the hell out of my face. You think I don't see it none. I do. A complete lack of respect for the military is what this is. You should go about treating us Federals a little bit more on the kinder side for not blowing all your asses away as I see it…uh, what the hell are you doing?"  
  
"Damn! Ever time I used to snap my fingers three general infantry would burst in and shoot every one in the room. I guess I don't really have super powers."  
  
"Oh, a wise-guy huh…hold on just a moment there. I remember you. Yeah YOU! I could swear I've seen your likeness about before."  
  
All right, Gihren. Just play it cool. The man is a complete imbecile he could not possibly…  
  
"I wasn't responsible; I was only an image; they made me do it; I needed the work; I swear I ordered those colonies to be dropped on pastures and corn fields; I hate produce not people!"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"…" I was betting on the theory that maybe his eyesight was based on movement. Now, if I stood completely still…  
  
"Now I remember! You're the tall guy who shoved my girl while we were getting through the shuttle terminal. I knew I'd seen your mug before, and if you're thinking for one minute I'm going to let you go because you believe that head wound gives you some sort of protection or something, well you can just forget about it!"  
  
The tubby officer lunged at me with the grace of a grapefruit going, or should I say rolling, in for the decisive kill. I was well prepared for his onslaught, having my own old defenses revitalized by the previous conversation.  
  
"HELP! Stewardess! Someone, take a look at this. He's attacking an invalid. The oppression of the military-OW-you saw it here first folks. Take videos- OUCH-snap photos, this is the stuff tribunals are made of. My Geneva rights are being-Aargh-taken for granted!" It was the same stuff I pulled on Revil when he grabbed me by the collar after his initial invitation to the old fortress and it certainly got him off me then, though that might have been more thanks to the burly efforts of my entourage. This time the results were not as immediate, as this babbling baboon had good opportunity to reawaken the nerve endings in my groin, which I had long thought quite dead. And that is where I first saw her…  
  
"Excuse me gentlemen, but I am afraid there is no fighting in zero gravity. Please stay in your seats before I'm forced to inform the captain of a disturbance, and if he finds out you can be sure that there'll be some heavy clubbing involved."  
  
I couldn't see the most of her, being I was currently on the floor experiencing short bursts of pain seizures (so odd that I would find myself back on the floor in a heap so soon; Kycillia, where are you? You are never around when I need you) but from what I could view she was a bombshell of a plebian. Skin as clear as white as China before it is deformed by sidewalk artists with caricatures of lilies or animals and the like, ankles shaped like well-rounded saucers, and a form that swung like a kettle from heaven. This stewardess was the type of gal that really got the old Minosky particles flowing again. I had to work my way into the higher ground at this point. Strategy Gihren, strategy.  
  
"…OW!"  
  
"Oh my, you're not…injured, are you?"  
  
"…Yes."  
  
At this point the rotund rabble-rouser that had spent the last few moments rearranging my vitals made his attempt at a rebuttal to my implied accusation.  
  
"He made me do it. He tried to steal my seat!"  
  
"Excuse me ma'am, but only one and a half of my arms are functioning and my appendix has just made a mess of my innards, why in the hell would I want to take on this blaspheme of a behemoth woman?"  
  
Left with two very ardent arguments as to the fate of seat B in row G, I felt the eventual judgment handed to us by this slender character was quite on the fair side.  
  
"Well, if you two are just going to go on like so about this little thing, I guess one of you will just have to sit with me."  
  
Honor nothing; those were surrender terms I would gladly accept. I was swift to make my decision known to the concerned party.  
  
"All right, you win. I concede. The seat's yours."  
  
"But…."  
  
"No, you were right all along. It's my fault entirely. Now just sit your titanic kiester down in that petite cushion of victory, for it is entirely evident to me sir that you enjoy it. I'm just going to go over here with her now and be depressed for a little while."  
  
"You just can't…"  
  
"No, no my clumpy companion. There's no reason to feel guilty about the false righteousness of your actions. After all, it's not like anyone was really hurt; except me. It's not like anyone's dream of enjoying coach in a pure, moral setting has been turned to rot; except mine. It is not as if any one at any time is now going on some hopeless crusade against you to restore my former glory; that would just be silly. You've won. Congratulations. I'm just going to park myself over here now to better pout and scheme."  
  
I do not care about the concerns of anyone's argument on this point; having a phenomenally high I.Q. rocks! More to the point: I was used to defeat by now, what mattered at times of failure was a man's ability to see the bright spots in the situation; given my history, it should be obvious to any scholarly reader or observer that I had a knack for seeing the good in the worst of it.  
  
So it will be written in the history books of my life that I continued my journey through life in the smooth cool recliner of a first class designation in the company of a first…no, maybe a second class lady (but certainly no less than second class). All seemed to be heading in my direction again. I could see clearly. The rain was gone. I could see through all obstacles in my path. The second stage of Operation Stumpfher was to be less clear and held the brunt of the real dangers. It would ultimately decide the outcome of the conflict. Easy Gihren. Be casual. The road to well being was long and arduous. Play hardcore.  
  
"Sooo, want sex?"  
  
Then again the quick and easy path was always a much better method for determining your current situation, and did I mention it was more fun? Well it is.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Her forceful reply was a telltale sign all was not well on the front. Quickly, I found myself forced to change tactics.  
  
"Uh, how are you doing?"  
  
It was not the save I would have preferred, but my overall unit strength was sparse and I needed to reacquaint myself with the enemy, discern the various weaknesses. I enjoy taking advantage of weaknesses you know. The faults of sub-me human beings are just little things I have always enjoyed playing with now and then, those and my dad's gun. No reason to worry though, I only messed with that dangerous thing until I got his Side. By then I knew better than to risk myself for pleasure. Why bother when there are others just as willing to accept those risks for you, whether they are aware of it or not? Those were the good times. Anyway:  
  
"Sooo, what can I use against you?"  
  
The time for subtlety had ended…five minutes ago.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
Ah, playing hard to kill I see. Well, we will see how take this:  
  
"…"  
  
Deafening silence. I knew she could not take it. Unfortunately, despite these expectations she rose to the occasion and outdid me in her quiet contemplations of the queer design of the front seat, which seemed to resemble a golden pig with oversized wings taking flight in a sea of blue velvet. I could not understand her fascination with it. Suddenly, the static voice of some pagan god boomed from overhead.  
  
"Evening ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking…"  
  
I had no idea what the hell he was blathering about. He certainly was not my captain.  
  
"We're currently cruising at an altitude of, oh, yea high and at about, oh, maybe a couple billion kilometers from our destination…oh, hey a mobile suit. Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look out the right side windows you may be able to make out the approach of the GM squad that's quickly approaching…Oh Good Lord!"  
  
True to his words there was a trio of Federation mobile suits cometing their way straight toward my side of the plane. They were all so well synchronized that it almost seemed to all be a part of some plan of tactics. I was not particularly considered; after all, what were GMs ever famous for other than randomly exploding in large groups? Of course that's precisely what they did, all three in short order. The man from above made yet another appearance for my listening enjoyment.  
  
"It's all right everybody. No need to panic. It's just another battle between the Federation and some resistance groups, not anything to get panicky about. Some turbulence is expected."  
  
The battle itself raged on with a patriotic bang for both sides involved, but especially for the faction that reigned over the fellows in the orangatanish one-eyed mobile suits, which had deformed shoulders and black puffy mobile-suits that reminded me of the Stay-Puffed marshmallow man. It filled with a renewed vigor to see them tearing away at their multi- colored, flimsy armed nemeses and I could not help but give in to the urge to actively cheer them on from the comfort of my first-class seat. Of course, after several barbaric yawls of support for the old team, I awoke from my fervor to see that I had inadvertently alienated myself from both passengers and crew. Boy, did this ever remind me of the good old days. I did not wish to cause too much a disturbance, given that most were now finding it hard to pay attention to both my ferocious banter and the pica- battle rattling across the left side of the craft, so I surrendered to a quiet composure. At about this time a sly gentleman who reeked of lovely imperial decadence smoothed himself toward my position. Despite my attempts to appear disinterested he succeeded in pulling me once again into the droll void of conversation.  
  
"So, ten Federales says the Feds kick ass and the ask questions."  
  
I was as stunned as a deer stuck on I-40 at the peak of a Saturday afternoon. Certainly the man must have been joshing me. But maybe he was being serious. I did not wish to appear overly rude to the gentleman as I reserved that aspect of myself only for my direct relatives, of whom there was now a shortage, so I feigned ignorance.  
  
"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you through all the white noise you inane, delusional excuse for monkey pudding." I was never really that good at feigning ignorance. It's true. Half the time during those speeches I just wanted to blurt out 'we're losing, run for your lives…every man for himself'. It went through quite a few coaches before I was able to suppress those impulses, and even then I used to walk off that stage every day and just laugh and laugh and laugh and then laugh some more. It was always so silly the rubbish some people are willing to believe when they are desperate, but I suffered from the knowledge that so few were actually ever in on the big joke, which of course was the whole One-Year war deal, but I suffered too you know (don't believe me; just ask the gaping hole in my head). This is neither here nor there now, and I must admit to getting off subject. His reply was equally perplexing.  
  
"Don't believe me huh. Well then, you must be new around these parts."  
  
I could not understand it. Sure, these were not exactly your fresh-out-of- the-oven machines of military might. A year's shoddy maintenance and piece- meal weaponry seemed now to be as natural to them as their chipped, gray- green paint jobs (In could never understand the reasoning behind camouflage in space…it was not as if there was that much to hide behind besides something else that was probably valuable and expensive like a warship; as far as I was concerned that was just another five thousand wasted). They always complained at the gates that we were purchasing five-credit toilet seats while the countless drones continued to starve. Hah! If only I had been able to afford five-credit cushions for those seats, "ut noooooo Gihren, that proposal can't make it in the budget this year, we've got to concentrate that cash on winning the war by making sure our mobile suits have a fresh coat every year." I have yet to have seen such mismanagement since the stooges decided inherited Curley's uncle's haunted mansion. Oh, the stooges. I do not care what anybody says about them. It was through a veritable marathon of stooges' episodes that I found the will to move on after Odessa. I had even written the mobile suit tactics manual based on many stooges routines. In hindsight that may not have proven to be such a hot…damn! I digress yet again. Anyways, back to the story at hand. When we last left me, I was staring back at the smug expression of Count Pompous pants as I dubbed him for his irksome habit of being…well, really, really pompous (and that irritates me).  
  
"Excuse me sir, but as you can already see, the entire GM squad has been done in. I do believe you owe me a good ten hunchbacks."  
  
His smirk was so convincing I was nearly taken aback. "Now just hold up a moment friend. It's only been fifteen minutes. I say give it another…" He pulled out a fine brass pocket watch that I am quite sure he was hoping to pass off as pure gold and examined the face like he gave a hootenanny about the time. "Oh, I say another…five seconds."  
  
Suddenly it all turned to utter nonsense. In reality the Zakus and Doms had seized the day, but in what I can only describe as some sort of disreality a very queer looking mobile suit whom the other suits had apparently "not noticed" up until it arrival into the middle of the group made headway into the head of the lead resistance unit…from then on it was all rather one- sided. All in all it was a pretty disappointing feeling to witness the next few moments only to remember you bet on the team that should have won. Bitterly, I found myself shouting frenzied calls of support in an attempt to renegotiate the team spirit, which I found suddenly lacking along with six members of the actual team.  
  
"Oh come on you knuckleheads! He's behind you! No, behind you! Oh good night that's a terrible way to go. No, don't fire the weapons or you'll just hit each other. No, running away is bad, stay in the formation…oh great, now your dead. Is that what you wanted? Watch out. Heat hawk? You've still got ten rounds of ammunit-well, now you're dead too. That's right, just gang up on him. Oh, you have him now. Uh, okay. All the bullets deflected off of him like popcorn pellets thrown at a newsvendor. But that's okay. You're fine, you're…retreating. Well, at least you can live to fight another…nope, you all died. That is not a good strategy fellas. Thanks a lot you bastards, you just lost me ten creds! Disappointing! Not to mention absurdly embarrassing."  
  
The winner of the bet was quick with his condolences. "Don't feel bad guy. Hell, this is just the way it always ends up. The Federal regulars get their asses kicked, but then some fifteen odd minutes afterwards some misfit pilot probably still in puberty shows up in a proto-type he really is not supposed to have and just blows the shit outta your boys. It's the old Gundam infallibility constant. Wonder when those Zeon boys will ever learn?"  
  
Suddenly, the pilot's overused voice box could be heard echoing out of the various boxes overhead. "Wow, that was amazing! Did you see that? When he cut him right in two like that? Whoa…I mean…whoa. Now I know this is not in the flight plan, but I say that we circle back and take another look at that wreckage just so we can stare at the corpses and be amazed at all the killing that one suit did. I mean, come on. What if there are any midgets on board? They might not have been able to see it for the first time. So, who wants to take another look?"  
  
Apparently every Joe, Jane, and camcorder in the aisle agreed with the pilot's request except for my joyless self. I recoiled in shame as every flashing light of every memory-saving device made its way to a seat window. Truly a treasured moment. On the plus side I got several photographs taken of myself for one family's scrapbook and I got a bag of various hotel shampoos and chocolates out of it. They even said it was an honor to have such a fine photograph of someone who "looked so darn familiar."  
  
The chap who had liberated my ten life-sustaining paperbacks had made his way to a seat across the aisle from mine and continued in his own way to bother me. He would be discontent with his victory until he had interrogated me.  
  
"So, where you headed?"  
  
"Oh, nowhere."  
  
"You know, you look like someone I've seen before."  
  
"Yeah, I get that a lot these days."  
  
"Can't quite put my finger on…you do know your eye has fallen out of my socket?"  
  
"Yeah, that happens a lot too."  
  
"Uh-huh…so, what you into, what are your hobbies and the like my man."  
  
"Used to be a politician of sorts."  
  
"Really. How interesting. What happened to that?"  
  
"Oh, it just did not pan out the way I had suspected it would in Kindergarten. Life is so much more fulfilling when you're six years old and appreciated as a human being."  
  
"You're preaching to the choir on that one my man. So, still aiming for politics?"  
  
"No, I just don't think I have the taste for it anymore, but I suppose the loss of twenty-five percent of your brain mass can do that to you."  
  
"Well, in that case…I might have something right up your alley. You see, I know a guy who's trying to market a new type of Advil cold and Sinus reliever for new-types and I see you as the ideal candidate for John Doe who did not turn to Advil when it mattered most. I also know a guy whose Chinese restaurant is in dire need of a mascot and…"  
  
I wondered if there was going to be an in-flight movie. I could sure go for a few stooges' films right about now. After all, there is no time like the present, and it was going to be an extremely long flight. 


End file.
